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Kevin Sampsell
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The Job

     This is how I learned about cunnilingus from a policeman's wife at
the age of 18. This was during the time I became a legendary fryer.
      First off, I was a graveyard waiter at a place called The Top
Hat. It was a place in the "bad part" of the town I grew up in. A
small town, but one with parts all the same. Hookers and unwashed
people came in and I had to serve them coffee and pie.
    On my way home after work I started to stop off at this donut
shop. The reason being of course: Because it was there. And because
it was open, which many places weren't at 5:30 in the morning.
A man wearing an Ocean Pacific shirt and a mustache as thick
as Gene Shallitt's was strong-arming a blob of dough on a floured
surface near the entrance. I checked out his action over the plastic
sneeze guard.
     "Whatcha up to?" he asked me. I often was wearing a tie and
looking as if I'd just woken up or maybe was out all night drinking.
     "Uh, I just got off work. I wait on tables. The Top Hat.
Graveyard." I moistly chewed out the words, amidst cake donut
debris. "These cake ones are awesome," I commented with favor.
     "They're called spuddies," he enlightened me.
     "What the-"
     "We don't make donuts here. These are made with potato flour
mix. The cake ones are spuddies and the raised ones are spudnuts."
He folded up the flattened dough three times and then plopped it atop
a machine that fed the dough into a cutter-type roller. "This is
spudnut dough. It has yeast, so it rises in here." He opened a
metal door and showed me some hot racks near his feet. "The spuddie
dough doesn't have yeast, so it stays cake." He let me think about
this. " Want a job?" he asked me.

     A few days later I went from graveyard shift waiter to early morning
spudnut fryer. It was closer to home, there were free spudnuts, and
the pay was better. The man I worked with was also named Kevin. He
was about 30 and built like a tight end, about 6-3, 240 pounds.
During my first few weeks we were known as Big Kevin and Li'l Kevin.
Kevin's sister was a big woman named Val and she was real bossy some
times and real funny at other times. Whenever we got busy, which we
did a lot it seemed for just a donut- I mean, spudnut shop, Val would
say things like: "Shake yourself" and "C'mon Kev, you want me to take
over back there? Gotta get crankin'!"

     Most of the people who came into the spudnut shop were people
who worked out at the nuclear power plant, near where I grew up.
Also there were lots of teachers, sundry retired folk, suits, and
assorted early risers. It seemed like a requirement to like sports
if you were a regular. And if you were a regular that also meant
having the same thing every day. If Val saw you coming from across
the parking lot (even at a snail's pace) she'd be like- "Sedalle,
chocolate spudnut and a decaf for Joe. Quick." If a customer came
in and his usual diet wasn't set up at his everyday spot there
must've been something wrong somewhere. The whole joint was
a well-oiled machine.
     Sports was the reason I became known as Sedalle. Big Kevin
was a pretty fucking goofy guy who was always making funny noises and
doing silly pranks. I was mostly into music at the time, but still
had a passing interest in sports from my days as a
statistics-hoarding football freak in junior high. Big Kevin and I
went out after work a few times and played some playground
     His stiff but powerful inside play reminded me of Robert "The Chief"
Parrish of the Celtics, while my quick, slashing aggressiveness and
hustle earned me the alias Sedalle Threatt, who was a backup point
guard at the time for my favorite team, the Philadelphia 76ers.
     So we'd be working in the midst of some mad rush, our pace
faster than the spudnuts can fry in the fryer, and just to keep the
mood fun for all, Kevin would shout out my nickname in an exaggerated
PA announcer voice: "Sedaaaalle Threeeeeeatt!" then I would go "The
     Customers were also special enough to receive trumpeting
treatment. Murphy was one. He was a slouched 62-year old who we'd
greet by announcing: "It's the Armeeeeenian!" Other regulars were
Ray, Coach, Betsy Baker, Danny Boy, Ozzie, and Miss Missy. Random
terms were rotated for folks who we weren't familiar with. Tags
like- Old Man, Big Dog, Chi Chi, and Buster.
     Whenever we had the dough rolling through the cutter, Kevin
and I had to stand on each side and gather up the uncooked spudnut
shapes. They'd then go into the warm racks where they would rise,
then we'd plop 'em on a wire tray and stick them in the fryer where
they cooked in the oil. All the extra dough was rolled into a little
football and thrown around the shop when it wasn't busy.
     Sometimes we’d plant a small piece of dough on the
ground where we knew that someone would step on it. Stepping on one
of these things felt like you were stepping on a small squishy turd.
Kevin and I would casually watch over our time bombs and make
clicking clock sounds. Whenever Val or whoever would step on it we'd
laugh and congratulate each other on our treacherous achievement.

     At some point during this job, which I held for a year and a half, I
turned into a dog. Meaning, I was going out with two girls at once
who both lived in the same town, a little Hicksville about a
half-hour south. One was a preacher's daughter who loved to have sex
in graveyards and other such scenery, while the other was a quiet
adopted Hispanic girl whose parents feared evil so much they threw
out even her Corey Hart cassettes.
     This "arrangement" didn't last long of course and I ended up
with the Hispanic girl for over a year after Funeralfuck freaked out
and sprayed graffiti about me in numerous inconvenient locations such
as water towers and bridges.
     Elvia was the name of this, my first real post-high school
girlfriend. I knew it was time that I learned about this mysterious
and tribal-sounding ritual known as "eating out a pussy." All the
oral sex I'd seen in magazines were photos of women giving it to men.
I had no idea that oral sex was such an equal opportunity activity.
The first time a girl asked me to give her oral sex, it was a
one-night stand with a 16-year old devil worshipping runaway. We
were making out and I had her shirt off. I began licking her breasts
and when she asked: "Will you eat me out?" I thought about it for a
second, knowing I didn't even know the first step and politely
answered, "No, thanks."
     My mother and I were never close enough to have sexual talks.
I think she knew something was up as regards to my sexual blooming,
but she never pried. Mostly she stayed in her sewing room at home
and made me some pretty cool Miami Vice style jackets. My color of
choice was secondary for my love of paisley. I took pride in my
paisley clothes and could easily dress in different paisley every day
of the week without a repeat. At this time I was also into doing the
pseudo-fag thing and wearing stretch pants along with a brooch or
bolo tie. My dad questioned my mom once about this. "I don't want
him looking like a girl all the time. All that jewelry and crap.
The next thing you know he'll be wanting a dress," he warned her. My
scotch-taped photo of Ralph Macchio on my wall may have also alarmed
him. Of course, I never wore that kind of stuff to work. Maybe just
loud shirts once in a while.
     Possibly my best bet for advice from an older, more
experienced person: Big Kevin.
     "Gotta grow yourself one of these first," he pontificated,
sticking his mustache out as far as the tip of his nose. I decided
to cut my losses and to not explore his further wisdom.
     After work that day, Val cornered me in the back room. "You
want me to just tell you how to do it and save ya some time?"
     I tried to think of something funny to say, but settled for:
"Sure, if you want to."
     She explained several things; the taste, the labia, the clit,
the secret button, the canal. She mapped out certain methods; the
vibrator, the fingers, the tongue, lips, teeth, etc. And finally,
she soberly gave me a few warnings: yeast infections, periods, excess
pubic hair in the teeth, gagging on excess pubic hair, pubic hair
which seems to be either absent or shaved.
     I didn't ask her about how the cop did it to her. Actually
it might have been against the state law. I thought I'd better be
careful in case it was.

     The results were: I loved it! Even despite close calls with horny
yeasty girls and others who looked like they had Jimmy Walker's head
sticking out of their groin, the giving of oral pleasure was high on
my priorities list on every date. I did white girls, black girls,
Asian girls, redheads, blondes, and even a Mormon. But of course it
was the stunning cream-n-coffee lower regions of Elvia that I
practiced and practiced on. O' the sweet nectar!

     As I prepared to leave my job and my hometown for a slightly bigger
city to begin vocational schooling, it was nearing time to hang up my
apron and retire from the spudnut biz. "You were a legend in the fry
zone, Sedalle," reflected Kevin on my 18 months of fabulous frying.
I was glazing up a batch and doing my best Dick Vitalle-
     "It's SHOW TIME, baby!"
     Kevin splashed water on his face and wiped faux tears from
under his eyes. "We're gonna retire your apron, man. It'll hang
from the rafters."
     I looked at my early morning work companion with respect.
     Murphy rattled through the door. "It's the Armeeeenian," I announced.
     Murphy stopped for a moment and asked over the sneeze guard,
"This is your last day, isn't it?"
     "Yeah, off to the medium city, old man."
     "Well, you make one heck of a spudnut, kid," he informed me.
Then he paused to let me prepare for some wisdom. "Just remember,"
he started, "when you get there and get settled, you can't go back

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